The Douchebag Bible (45 page)

and subdued Douchey, I found myself quite unable

to stand. I couldn't stand at all for a week afterward.

Nor could I walk very well for months after that.

Today, my leg is much better, but still not 100% of

what it was before the fight. And really, it's Holly's

fault. It wasn't any of Douchey's attacks that felled

me, but Holly's attempt to break the fight up. To this

day, I have never been to the doctor for my leg injury.

I suspect that I tore my ACL.

I had to fill out an incident report both with the

security for Universal’s Citiwalk and with the

Orlando Police Department. Douchey was

ultimately banned from the park for a year. I, on the

other hand, was kicked out for the day, but told that

I was welcome to return anytime that I liked. Both

park security and the employees of the store backed

me up on the fact that Douchey was the aggressor,

even though I threw the first punch. They wanted to

see him get punched in the face every bit as much as

I wanted to punch him, and they were joyously

happy when I did so. Several employees and store

patrons came up to me after the fight as I was sitting

on a store bench filling out an incident report, and

told me that I was awesome and that me beating the

shit out of Douchey was among one of the best

things they’d ever seen. I must confess, it's among

the best things I've ever done. Or it would have been,

if it hadn't come at the high price of my left leg's

stability.

It seems that there are few moments of

triumph in life that don't come with a price.

But I really don’t know how to contain my

anger without containing everything else. I don’t

know how to express all of my emotions
except
for

anger. It’s all or nothing with me. I am either a cold,

distant person who seems to have no emotion. Or I

am a cauldron of impotent rage with no focus. My

rage is unending. Even now, it is there. I can feel it.

A monster beneath my skin. Hating. Screaming.

Throwing a tantrum. Demanding that I smash

things. Demanding that I punch people in the face.

Demanding that I put myself in bad situations.

Demanding that I make the bad situations I’m

already in worse.

I have no idea how to placate my rage. So it

broils and boils and gnarls within my chest,

constricting my lungs and overworking my heart. It

will not bargain with me. It will not relent.

It will not back down from anyone. Not even

me. Especially not me.

My father was an angry man. And it is, I’m

almost certain, part of what killed him. My brother

is an angry man, and I’ve seen how it affects him.

I’ve seen how powerless he can become against it.

And I know that I am just as powerless against my

own anger.

Of course, it can be fun to be angry. More often,

however, it's a tremendous liability. I no longer feel

glee when I verbally eviscerate someone. I no longer

get a burst of joy from smashing something. I no

longer want my daydreams of going on a rampage. I

want this fire tamed. Not put out. But tamed. I want

to control my anger. Right now, it controls me. I am

not the master of my hatred. It is my master. And

when, on a cold day, my left leg aches and tightens

up, I am reminded of the toll I have already paid for

allowing my rage to hold the reigns.

At the same time, it's hard to deny that rage has

been good to me. I am an extremely belligerent and

contentious asshole, and people seem to like that. If

anything, people wish I was more belligerent. The

more contentious I become, it seems, the more views

I get on YouTube. It seems that no one wants to “like”

me in any sort of traditional way. People want to be

entertained by me, by my ranting and raving and

screaming and yelling.

Be honest. Who would you rather watch in a

debate? Two kindly folks having a civil disagreement

or two bitter enemies who hate one another and

view each other as lower than dog shit?

If you answered the former you are either part

of a very tiny minority or you are a fucking liar.

People love to see two assholes go head to head. Do

you think my YouTube inbox every week is stuffed

to the brim with people asking me to nicely refute

idiots on YouTube? No. It’s full of requests for me to

cruelly obliterate idiots with extreme prejudice and

zero empathy. So, from an entertainment

standpoint, there is at least one pro to being an

emotionally stunted rage-o-holic. It's more

entertaining, and if you’re not entertaining then who

is going to watch? Who is going to listen?

But that does bring up a big follow-up question,

doesn't it? Why am I worth listening to? What about

me makes me uniquely qualified to speak up and to

speak out? I'm a reasonably intelligent man, but

there are smarter ones. I can speak eloquently, but

many have oratory gifts that put mine to shame. I

am not an expert on any subject, nor am I a strong

advocate of or activist for any particular position.

That's a hard question for me to answer,

because I have such a low opinion of myself. My

depression, though held at bay by sheer force of will,

still whispers to me:
“27 years old? You’re nearly 30.

What the fuck have you accomplished? You fat fuck.

You’ll never lose weight. You’re fucking ugly. You

suck at life. You fail. No one likes you. No one cares

about you. Every relationship you have is a fucking